Anxiety and Depression
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Here is the cruelest fate,That life has placed upon my plate.I have furnished the table with silverware,Of those to my type.And I will dine on what you have given meIn the Hell we are both living,And for the Heaven we are both missing,Upon the Earth where we are both grieving. The nectar of romance,A sweet
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Little birdWho weeps, and still creates songAfter bloody songIn her bath of red-colored water,As her garbs lie heaped upon one another,On the floor, outside of reach. I saw what twisted my vision,A hue in a bath of waterAnd it was the color of the sun, yet without the warmth,For a knife has drawn evenlyOver the
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All distortion followsThe moon with its velvet hues,Its resplendence,Its call to men of blood-thirst,For it has a face as wicked as the heart above it,My own, that does writheBut, what does it say?Shall we have a listen? Syllables in repetition,Contrasts in transition,And the words spoken, aloud, are,“What is this wilderness, about yourselves?Have you forgotten,To call
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As life would be, thrown in my directionWith all the smallest jingles from bells against it,And the scenario builds itselfUpon the rottenness of my withering shoulders,For my life is a crusade,A great raceAcross this treasured desert,Upon this harlot’s cross,Where she’d die for the nighttime,Where she’d die for the bedtime,Where she’ll kiss, through a cloud above
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She has made me wantTo die.She has made me wantTo cry.To weep cries of softnessAnd greater bitterness,Into these hands that tremble,For I am sick to my utter core. In my failure,I am still in my mind.I have faulted everythingIn all my failure. And yet,To feel guilt is noble,Is it not? My health, I care not
Modern Romanticism 